Monotony and Rhythm
by Predominantly Normal
Summary: It's just another Friday night in which everything is the same as the weeks before. And Tweek loves it. CREEK/PLOTLESS ONESHOT


**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

**Hey. Basically, I'm just trying to get back into the feel of posting stories often like I did in my golden year of 7th grade haha. This is just a stupid plotless story because I don't let myself write enough of those. The story's a little pretentious and awkward but I really don't care.**

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><p>Tweek Tweak would've call himself a sensible twelve year old boy. He was just over four feet tall, and just under one-hundred pounds. The perfect size for an average kid, he figured. His nose was hooked like his father's, and his eyes were big and brown like his mother's. His blond hair was uniquely his, jutting straight off of his head as if he had been electrocuted. He played baseball on the local Cow's team, and drank cherry Gatorade with all his friends on the metal bench in the dugout. He never got anything lower than a C on a spelling test, and never anything higher than a B.<p>

His father decided he was the perfect little boy. The absolute largest, shiniest, red ornament on their family Christmas tree.

But four years later, he would take more liberties with himself. Tweek Tweek would call himself a living hell of a sixteen year old. He was exactly six feet, seven inches, and approximately one-hundred and sixty pounds. The perfect size when you want people to stay the fuck away from you, he decided. His nose was bended and crooked from a fight in his freshman year, and his eyes were hardly more than black pits darting anxiously from side to side. His strange blond hair was cut, shaved, tied, and burned off until it hardly resembled something that would come from a human being. He watched the varsity baseball team play and when they all left, he drank liquor in the empty dugout. He hadn't received anything higher than a C since he was in the sixth grade.

His father decided that he was a troublemaker. A hellion. That one sad, broken Christmas angel that the family just couldn't give up.

And so there he was- kicked out of his own home at age sixteen and a half, told not to come back until he cleaned himself up.

His ratty sneakers padded across the dimly lit drugstore as he swept up dirt. He ran two jobs outside of school- one at the local convenience mart, and one at the breakfast diner.

He spoke in a sophisticated collection of grunts, hums, and paranoid yells. Hardly ever spoke true English unless asked a question. He didn't need to speak. Nobody cared much about what he had to say anyways. So he saved what energy he would've spent reciting the mundane phonetic sounds that created the English language, and instead used it to read.

He read Nirvana song lyrics, and grocery signs, and all the ingredients that made up processed food. He was reading now, casually flipping through a cooking magazine, mouthing the words as he scanned the recipe belonging to a red velvet cake.

The bell rigged up to the front door rang as a stranger walked in. Not a complete stranger- Tweek had known this boy since the beginnings of his memory. Craig Tucker- the clean cut, monotone, first base hopeful of his class of fifteen. If anyone could claw their way out of this town, it was him.

He came much too often for Tweek's liking- once every week to pick up a six pack and some cigarettes with a shitty fake ID. Perhaps that was why he always came to this store- it was the only one that was willing to bypass his young age.

He stood around the freezer for a moment before snagging his favorite brand of beer and his other favorite pack of smokes. He walked around the store for a few more minutes before finding himself at Tweek's counter. Tweek wordlessly rung him up, charging him eleven dollars and sixty cents for his trouble. Craig paid promptly, handing Tweek a blue credit card that was faded around the plastic edges.

"You wanna come hang out with me tonight?" Craig asked. He asked that every week. And every week Tweek responded with a shake of his head.

"Ngh," Tweek declined.

"Alright. But I'll be waiting if you change your mind."

"Hmph," Tweek amended.

Craig collected his bagged groceries and walked off. Tweek decided that maybe he'd follow tonight. It was an unseasonably warm Friday, and he didn't have to go to work until late afternoon the next day. He checked the wall clock. Only five minutes until the store shut down, and it didn't seem like anybody was dying to scan the aisles anytime soon. So he flicked off the lights one by one, cleared the aisles with the broom another time over, locked the register, and grabbed his black winter coat. Then he left.

Craig was sitting where Tweek always found him- sipping on his second beer in the abandoned dugout. Craig was good enough to score on the varsity team, and his presence in the area wasn't considered tresspassing so long as he could pretend he had been practicing. Tweek shuffled over to the dugout, ducked under the canopy, and sat down on the bench. He grabbed a beer and cracked it open with his shaking fingers, relishing the hiss of carbon that greeted his worn ears.

Both boys drank in silenece like they seemed to do every week, waiting for the other to strike a one-sided conversation. Tweek examined Craig, trying to find something new in his pale complexion and steel eyes. Try as he might, however, he just couldn't. He sighed and grunted, taking another languid drink.

"You eat dinner?" Craig asked, tilting his head in curiosity. Tweek nodded in response, despite the ever growing ache in his stomach. "Okay." Craig pulled out a brown lunch bag and pressed it into Tweek's thin chest.

"You look nice tonight," Craig whispered, offering his companion a soft grin. Tweek only shrugged.

"I seen you in the stands at today's game. You said you wouldn't come," Craig continued, trying his best to fill the gaping silence with words. Tweek felt contempt rise in his stomach. Words seemed pointless. Both he and Craig knew very well that he didn't come for words.

"I love you," Craig admitted. There was a pale blush on his cheeks and a soft glow in his eyes, as if he found these words more meaningful, more honest and raw than the last. Tweek didn't. He just nodded in acknowledgement.

Craig snorted. "Why can't you fucking talk? What's wrong with you?" He whipped around and grasped Tweek's shoulders tightly in his fingers. Tweek blinked.

"I set a cat on fire yesterday," he finally said, face still a blank slate. His eyes never left Craig's as he recounted the morbid anecdote. "It was hanging around my apartment. I had a lighter. I put oil on the cat's tail and set it ablaze. The cat ran all the way around the apartment complex, wailing and yowling and causing fucking mayhem. The flame spread. The cat died." Craig couldn't tell if the boy was lying or not- it was awfully hard to tell with him.

"And I love you too," Tweek muttered quietly. He pushed himself off the bench to connect lips with Craig. He tasted like nicotine and Dorritos, making Tweek wince in disgust. He didn't have time to make a comment about it, however, because Craig only deepened the embrace, pulling Tweek on to his lap and snaking his arms around the blond's hips.

Tweek gasped, biting his lower lip and squeezing his eyes shut. Craig nuzzled into the crook of his neck and planted gentle fleeting kisses down his skin. Tweek's fingers tightened around the fabric of Craig's coat, wondering idly if he could manage to keep himself from floating away if he held tight enough. They met lips again, moving in an unsteady yet familiar rhythm. Tweek could almost say he felt at home.

Craig parted the kiss and smiled only barely. "I really love you."

Tweek replied: "Thanks for the beer."

Tweek woke up the next morning, sore and exhausted. He could see the varsity baseball fields from his apartment. He knew that Craig would have to leave one day, but for now, he would simply indulge in his moments of monotony and rhythm.


End file.
